


In Nocturnal Rapport

by Makalaure



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Blood, Character Study, Drama, Family, Gen, Hallucinations, Horror, PTSD, Violence, mature themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 12:00:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5089946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makalaure/pseuds/Makalaure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elrond remembers Sirion, and learns the art of the sword.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Nocturnal Rapport

Warnings for violence and mature themes.

Many thanks to my betas, Aeärwen, Meisiluosi, and Curious Wombat.

Disclaimer: I do not own Tolkien's works.

In Nocturnal Rapport

A door opens and shuts.

Moonlight glints on the water I had spilled on the bedside table, but when I take my ratty cotton kerchief to mop it up, my hands are stained with crimson. My heart begins to pound. Cold sweat gathers at my hairline and drips down my temple. I try to call for help, but my voice is stuck in my throat.

Someone hollers from outside my chamber for my brother and me to get out.

Flames lap at the bottom of our door and chase away the darkness. The air is choked with thick shrouds of blue-grey smoke. I turn to wake Elros, but his bed is empty, the plain blanket crisp and neat, as if it had never been slept in.

_Sirion. Sirion is burning._

A sharp pain rips through my side.

"Get up, fool."

I groan and cover my eyes with my arm. Why is it so _bright_?

"I said get up, you useless lump of Orc droppings."

Another dig in my side. I yelp and jump up, rolling off the bed and landing on the chilled floor with a thud. The room spins slowly for a moment, and then stills. Elros is standing before me, a hand on his hip, bright eyes narrowed. He is dressed in his fencing gear, and his boots are covered in a film of dust.

"You overslept," he says, not bothering to look at me, picking some dirt from his nails. "Maedhros is not happy. You had better get ready for a thrashing."

I blink twice, slowly. The sun is high in the sky, streaming through the window and painting the ground, and bringing out the bronze in Elros' hair. He raises an eyebrow expectantly, and my jaw drops.

We had fencing practice this morning.

I scramble up, cursing in a manner that even Maglor would punish me for, and rush to the closet, flinging out some clothes. "Why didn't you wake me earlier?" I say in a high-pitched voice.

"It is not my duty to wake you."

"Do this world a favour and throw yourself off the hill," I snarl, thrashing into my breeches.

He shrugs, a smug grin on his face. "I'd rather die in battle." Then, more seriously: "You are in a pleasant mood this morning."

My hands shake as I pull on my tunic and reach for my sword, which is leaning against a corner. I look to the window, and swallow the lump that rises in my throat. The glass is flecked with a string of blood. I squeeze my eyes shut, take a breath. _There is nothing there, nothing. I am not I am not I am not in Sirion_. I open my eyes. The window is clear. I can see wispy clouds sailing along the breeze. Biting my lip, I huddle my sheathed sword to my chest.

"Are you planning to move your arse today or tomorrow?" says Elros with exaggerated patience.

I give him a cursory kick to the shin and gulp down half a glass of water to ease my parched throat. My hands are shaking, and some of it spills down the front of my tunic.

We hurry downstairs, out into the sunbaked courtyard, where a group of elves have assembled. The cool air carries a faint scent of pine, but I have no time to bask in it. Maglor is watching a couple of soldiers fence, and Maedhros is standing ramrod straight by a wall, his arms folded across his broad chest. I swallow and try not to backpedal when Maedhros turns to me and raises his chin in a pointed manner. "I am so glad you could fit us into your busy schedule," he says in his customary monotone voice.

I learned long ago not to argue with him or make excuses (memories of scrubbing the scum off massive cauldrons still make me cringe), so I hold my head high and advance towards the rest of the group. Maglor says nothing, but raises his brows at me in silent chastisement. I avoid his eyes and begin to stretch.

When I am called forward to fence, I grip the handle of my sword so hard my knuckles turn white. There is an odd rushing sound in my ears, as if I have pressed seashells against them. The world tilts sideways. My vision blurs. _Win, I have to win. Have to be in control, control, control._

The sky is painted with blood.

I position my feet.

Flaring fire and clashing steel and spilled entrails and choked moans that might have earlier been screams.

"Begin!"

It is over in less than a minute. The fellow helps me to my feet, and I can tell he is striving not to grin from his victory. His hand is warm and sweaty. The rushing sound is in my ears again. I have an urge to yank him down, to have his face connect with the stone ground. But I stand up and congratulate him, and then sally over to Maglor, who pats my shoulder but does not speak to me as he usually does. I frown and curl my toes.

There is no time to talk to him, anyway, because Maedhros calls me for another round, this time with himself. No doubt he has a mind to vanquish me publicly as punishment for my tardiness. Instead of composing a strategy to win, I prepare myself to be utterly humiliated; this day, I feel that I am low on luck. In any case, the most I've managed to do to Maedhros while training is make him so bored he stopped the fight and strode away.

The sparring lasts all of fifteen seconds. I cannot even stare at the sky for solace, because Maedhros orders me to get my backside off the ground sharpish.

"Don't be hard on yourself," Elros says with a big, toothy grin, when I limp over to him. I am hot, and bothered, and sticky with sweat and grime, and his attitude is not helping me. _I wish he would give me a warning before being so cheerful_ , I think, glaring at him, well aware of my childishness. He continues, "You cannot beat Maedhros at sword fighting, in any case."

That is my brother's idea of charity.

***

My stomach is rumbling, but Maglor's expression makes me put down my spoon. I was about to begin my lunch when he came and sat across from me at the trestle table. The sounds of clacking cutlery and singing are thick in the great hall. I want to admire my beautiful, steaming bowl of chicken stew, but force myself to look at Maglor's face instead.

He puts his chin in his hand and taps his long, brittle fingers on the table, brows drawn in a frown. "I wish I did not have to ask this of you," he says at last.

The grimness of his tone makes me forget the stew.

"Maedhros wishes for you and Elros to have more _practical training_ in sword fighting," he says, curling his lip as if he has tasted something bitter. He puts both hands on the table and releases a long-suffering sigh. "I tried to argue, but he is my elder and decided on this occasion to put his foot down."

"It's all right," I say, secretly thrilled. My heart begins to pound. I need to use my sword, _need_ something to kill –

"You and your brother will accompany me on a round next month, so there will be ample time to train you further till then," Maglor says, enunciating each word, looking at me closely, as if he suspects my thoughts. "We will scout the eastern and northern areas for a fortnight, and then return." He pauses, scowling at my neglected stew as if it is the cause for all his woes. I have an urge to pull the bowl towards me and hunch over it protectively.

Then he looks at me again, an odd, searching expression on his face. "Elrond, if you..." He shakes his head, as if struggling to form words, and then says in a more controlled tone, "If you are concerned about this, I can tell Maedhros – "

"No," I say, somewhat more sharply than I had intended.

Blood, so much blood. Round, unseeing eyes.

Suddenly, the sounds of the great hall seem to come from far away. I feel as if I am trapped in a bubble, separated from everyone else. "I will come with you."

Crows wheeling slowly, slowly in the slate-grey skies.

He narrows his gleaming, dark eyes at me. Uncomfortable under his shrewd gaze, I begin to fidget with a loose thread on my sleeve. He knows by now that I fidget when I grow anxious – and I certainly grow anxious when I lie or conceal a truth – but does not argue. With another sigh, he says, "I will have to speak with your brother, as well. You both will meet me in my chamber after dinner today."

I nod obediently. Like a good son. Good sons are obedient, are they not?

Maglor hums and gets up. I find that I want him to leave. He glances down at me with concern, his lips pursed. "Elrond, are you all right? You have been acting somewhat strange."

"How?" I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.

He gives a little shrug, brow furrowed. "Withdrawn. Moody," he says tentatively, as if he is afraid I will be offended.

"What else is new?" I say, dragging my bowl towards myself and blowing on the stew. It is iridescent with yellowish oil. Heedless of manners, I bring it to my lips and take a sip. I grimace. It is repulsively cold and reminds me of eating raw, stale meat.

Maglor rolls his eyes, and the tense atmosphere breaks. I can hear scattered singing and the clash of cutlery again. When he speaks, his tone is exasperated, but also fond. Fatherly. "The day you don't give someone your cheek is the day I will start worrying. I wonder where you get it from."

 _Probably my real father_ , I think, but say nothing.

It is only after he leaves that I realise I never thought of threatening him.

***

It had become a habit: thinking of ways to kill him. It began from the day we were captured. I would lie in bed, gazing at the broken moonlight shift on the walls, and try to devise methods in lurid detail. It almost felt strange to go to bed and not do so, while my brother slept like the dead beside me. For some reason, I never even attempted to carry out my plots. I was aware of the repercussions of a murder attempt; even in my perpetual haze of fury, I knew that the chances of my success were slim.

At some point I succumbed to the warmth of Maglor's embrace. It was too draining to despise him, to constantly remind myself of how much _more_ I ought to despise him. I may have been living under my enemy's roof, but I was fed, clothed, and given a warm bed. I was alive. There was nothing stopping me from getting up at the break of day and watching the sun climb above the jagged, green hills.

At three-and-twenty I should have all but forgotten Sirion. There is nothing in those memories for me. Elros does not talk about it; if I do, he groans, turns away, and stuffs his fingers in his ears. For all the world he appears a disgustingly carefree youth who'd sooner walk across hot coals than think before he speaks.

I look up from my seat on the edge of the bed. It is quiet. Thousands of dust particles drift in the beam of watery light that has forced its way through the window. It almost feels as if no one else resides in this grey, ageing fortress; solitude throws its cloak around my shoulders. The wind and the plains are cold company.

My sheathed sword leans against the wall in a corner. Its pommel gleams. I imagine slicing through tough sinew and hard bone, reddening my hands. It would offer relief.

I stand up. My heart pounds. I run my fingers through my hair and squeeze my eyes shut. My breaths are loud in this cramped chamber. I look at my sword again, and terror and loathing stream into my veins. It would be best if I fling it out the window, or melt it in the forge. Make jewellery out of it for posterity.

I am not a competent jewel-smith.

***

Elros has been chattering to me for the past hour. His voice is a dull buzz in my ears. I don't even know what he is talking about. I sit at my rosewood desk and pretend to listen. He makes lively gestures with his hands and there is a big, stupid smile on his face. A sickle moon glows in the sky, and warm candlelight flickers across my brother's form, over his tattered, red tunic and his cream scarf.

It is oddly warm for the season, and I dab at the sweat on my upper lip. There is a puddle of congealing blood on the floor. It appeared around the time my brother invited himself in. I have tried blinking, but it is not going away. A cloying smell of rotting flesh hangs in the air, and I wonder if I am imagining it or should look around for a dead animal. Elros appears oblivious to it.

"And then – are you listening?" he says in an indignant tone, straightening his back. The ends of his breeches are rolled up, and his dark, unruly hair hangs in his eyes. His slovenliness grates on my nerves. I am glad I do not share a chamber with him anymore; tripping over shoes and other sundry objects is not something I enjoy.

I grunt, waving a hand before my face to see if the gesture will make the blood disappear. It doesn't.

"Lies!" he says. "What was I talking about just now?"

Something inside me snaps. My fingers twitch. "Shut up. Your voice annoys me."

"Well, your _existence_ annoys me!" he crows, leaping up from his stool and knocking it over, and the ensuing _bang_ makes me cringe. There is no true anger in his voice. He is acting as if we had engaged in a childish battle of words and he had won. As if this was a game.

I sag in my seat and pinch the space between my brows. "Go away."

He crosses his arms over his chest. "Make me."

There are spatters of dark crimson on the glass of the window.

I draw a deep breath. If I leave, he will follow me, and I might do something we will both regret. "Elros," I say quietly, in a carefully controlled tone, "please leave."

His expression changes. Now there is fear and concern in his bright eyes, in the furrow of his brow, and suddenly he appears far older than he is, weighed down with years. He opens his mouth, like he wants to say something. But then he silently exits the room, shutting the door behind him. I hope he will not speak to Maglor about this.

I stick my knuckles in my itching eyes and glance at the floor again.

There is nothing there.

***

The grass is green and threaded with dew and rips easily. A little mound of torn grass is growing steadily by my side. Stars shine, cold and bright, in the ocean of the sky. The air is thick with the scent of wildflowers. A peaceful silence has settled over our company – the silence of the living, not of the dead. It is, on occasion, peppered with the clatter of pans and the crackle of fire and the lull of low voices.

Maglor sits down beside me and brushes away the mound of grass, his expression unreadable. I avoid his eyes. He does not reprimand me for being destructive, as I expected him to. Instead, he says, "You can tell me anything."

"I know." I fondle a blade of grass, wanting to tear it from the earth but not wanting to upset Maglor.

"Even if you do not wish to speak about it, I will be here if you need me."

"I know."

"I worry about you."

A pause. "I know." I turn to him, opening my mouth to say something, anything, to distract me from the acrid smell of ashes and the streaks of crimson, and draw a sharp breath. Half the skin of his face has been peeled away. It is as if someone just hooked their nails at the place where the lobe of his ear meets his jaw and ripped off the skin, revealing stringy flesh and cartilage and yellowish fat the texture of half-melted wax.

Suddenly I am paralysed from the neck up. I cannot breathe. My heart pounds. _It's not real not real can't be real no one touched him come to your senses._ I force myself to squeeze my eyes shut – one, two, three seconds – and then open them.

"Elrond?" There is a deep furrow in Maglor's brow. His face is normal again.

I swallow and let myself fall onto my back, onto the damp ground, and breathe heavily.

"Are you all right?" he asks, sounding alarmed.

I groan softly, cover my eyes with my arm, and roll onto my side, away from him. My hands clutch the hilt of the dagger at my belt so hard I hear my knuckles crack.

***

We had not expected the attack.

"Let me," I say, breathless, shaking. My clothes are drenched in sweat. A pale, autumn sun glows behind flimsy clouds. "Let me kill him." I plant my feet apart and raise my sword. Fury and ice and steel surge through my veins.

A tall, burly Orc with a battle-axe looms above three of our men lying prostrate on the earth. One of our soldiers rushes at him, brandishing his sword. A scattered battle rages around us. The sounds seem oddly distant to me. Vaguely, I wonder if Elros is all right.

Maglor places a hand on my shoulder. "We should attack together." His face is smeared with blood, and I know it is real.

"I need to do this!" I hiss, turning to him. His eyes widen, and he purses his lips. He draws back somewhat, searching my face. I drop my head and take a shuddering breath. "Please," I say.

His gaze hardens. "We will attack together, Elrond," he replies, in a firm tone that one does not retort to. I swallow and nod.

***

A fist backhands me across the face. The ensuing silence is long and thick. Slowly, I bring my fingers to my throbbing cheek, shocked. Maglor's normally serene face is contorted in anger. He has never raised a hand against me before. "You will not," he says in a low, tight voice, "try to do anything like that. Do you understand?"

We are in a copse of trees, away from the rest of the company, so they cannot hear us.

Tears spring to my eyes, more out of shame than the hot sting in my cheek. Maglor's expression softens. Suddenly he pulls me into a tight embrace, his hand fisting my hair, but not hard enough to break the strands. I lean my head against his shoulder and draw shuddering breaths. "I'm sorry," I whisper. I should not be weeping. Healers do not weep; nor do warriors. It is a sign of ingratitude –

"Elrond," says Maglor gently, "I want you to be safe." He pulls away and holds my shoulders. "And to be safe, sometimes you cannot do things alone." I am grateful for his impassive expression, and for the fact that he does not wipe my tears. He continues: "You wanted to attack that Orc, not to keep our company safe, but to kill for some kind of pleasure or catharsis – do not look at me that way. I could tell."

I drop my gaze.

He lets go of me. "I am in no position to lecture you on how you want to handle your troubles. I can, however, tell you that you will not sleep at night knowing you have killed for any reason but a last resort to protect yourself or others."

"Can you sleep at night?" I ask without looking at him.

There is a pause. "Yes." Briefly, his eyes flick away. "That came with time."

"I'm sorry," I say again.

"We make mistakes."

"I would have regretted that one."

"Yes."

"I have been acting like a child."

There is a gentle smile on his face. "You have."

_Can I stay with you forever?_

He puts a hand on my back, and together we walk back to the company.

***

I look up from my book on anatomy and lean back in my chair. The great hall is empty save me and a couple of people talking in low voices in a corner. Sunlight seeps through the long windows and warms the slate floor. It had rained earlier in the morning, and a smell of wet earth hangs in the air.

My brother enters the hall and advances towards me. He sits opposite me at the trestle table and takes a sip from my cup of tepid tea.

"Forgive me?" I ask quietly.

He says nothing, but smiles, eyes lazy and soft.

Outside, the greyhounds bay, signalling the return of a hunting party. One of the elves in the hall begins to strum a small harp.

I close my book and feel a grin spread across my face.

_-finis-_

Note: If you'd like to read more about everyone's favourite dysfunctional family, you can check out '[The Starlit Sky](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1053452/chapters/2108714)'.


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